


theories of self

by saintsurvivor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother/Brother Incest, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, The Samulet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14131623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: Post AHBL, p. 1 & 2. After the events of the past week, Sam and Dean manage to find a piece of themselves under the cover of darkness when holding up at Bobby’s, where they try to come to terms with the effects of Sam’s temporary death and coming to terms with Dean’s demon deal.





	theories of self

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladyboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyboo/gifts).



> **Author's Note #1** : Well. I gotta say, this is painful and I love it and I hope Ladyboo does too, because this is just. a Mess f feelings and pain and anguish.  
>  **Author's Note #2** : Also, I did a stupid and accidentally deleted my previous saintsurvivor tumblr, so now you can find me at [svstiels](http://svstiels.tumblr.com)

_ It was a night like all the others. Empty of everything, save memory _

—   **Raymond Carter** , from “Listening,”;  _ All of Us; the Collected Poems _

The night’s cool breeze makes it hard to sleep, the clatter of tree branches bashing against the window, the noise loud even through the glass. Sam lies still in the bed, covers pulled up to his shoulders, watching the ghostly sway of tree branches that peek through just parted curtains, the blinding red of the alarm clock lost in the gloom.

The blaze of the orange street lights outside illuminate the room in a shaft of light, throwing the battered floor and other shadowy objects into sharp relief. They turn Sam’s face an electric orange, a stark blood red that just misses his eyes, passing over the bridge of his nose, dipping across his barely exposed collarbone.

He sighs, feels the mattress creak beneath him as he shifts to get comfortable, ducks his chin down so it’s resting against his chest.

Dean is a warm, reassuring weight behind him, back just barely touching back against Sam’s. They normally wouldn’t share, but between everything; the shock of finally killing Azazel, the split second of terror Sam had felt as Jake Talley shoved a rusty knife into his spine and then finding out the truth of Dean’s demon deal, everything’s just caught up to them faster than usual.

Deep down, Sam won’t ever say that he’s glad for it, tonight at least. It makes him think back to their childhood, of crawling into Dean’s bed after a nightmare of fire and screaming and mother’s blood that Sam had no business remembering, terrified to the very bone. Dean, so big and brave, especially to Sam at that age, vowing to keep the monsters away as he tugged Sam closer, letting him curl into his chest beneath the covers.

He bites his lip until blood, feels the scratch of tears at the back of his eyes as the very small of his back  _ clenches _ , and his legs spasm, going numb for the briefest of moments, a bone raw and deep ache that Sam’s been feeling ever since he climbed off of a dirty mattress and asked just what had happened.

He turns his face into the pillow, smelling mistletoe and gun oil in the worn material. Bobby’s house might not be much, worn down and in desperate need of a lick of paint, but it’s as close to home as he and Dean have ever come to outside of the Impala. Sam fondly remembers days - even  _ weeks _ \- in their childhood of being left with “Uncle Bobby” when their dad went on a particularly dangerous or rough-sounding hunt.

But thinking of Dad only makes something inside of Sam burn, deep and hot, as he thinks of demon deals and dying and near death experiences. Before, when they’d learnt what Dad had done for Dean, how the man had swapped places with his eldest with only a chance to say one last goodbye, Sam had never really been able to contemplate, to even  _ try _ to understand what Dean had truly been going through. He’d tried,  _ God _ , he’d tried his hardest, but Dean had been closed off and angry, unable to truly let go of how much he was grieving the death of both his father and his hero, whilst also trying to shoulder the guilt of being the one, as Dean had whispered in the night when he’d thought Sam asleep, to kill Dad.

Now though, between seconds to minutes to hours, between a knife to the spine and a last inhaled breath and Dean begging him to live to dirty mattresses and shots to the head and Dean’s tear wet cheeks, the broken words of “ _ don’t get mad at me, don’t you do that. I had to.”  _ Sam knows how Dean felt at the moment in the most terrible way.

Sam has never truly wanted to kill himself, not in the way he wants to now. Before, it was a matter of control, just like his food, a matter of being able to exert independence on his body and his life, a small act of rebellion against his father and the life they’d been raised into, a way to show he still had some choice in  _ something _ . He’d learned words about it at Stanford, words like  _ passive suicide _ and  _ eating disorder not otherwise specified _ and  _ obsessive compulsive disorder _ and  _ depression _ , and it had held weight back then; when all Sam really had to worry about was exams and finals and money and the occasional hunt around Stanford that he couldn’t ignore and what would happen if he missed his therapy sessions and missing Dean like an amputated limb.

Now though, years back on the road with Dean, sharing space and time with his brother, it’s such a different life and Sam will never be able to compare them, but he’d be able to compare how he felt around those at Stanford to how he feels around Dean.

No, Sam has never wanted truly kill himself, but now. Knowing that he’s going to be the reason that Dean is dead, is the reason that will have Dean end up torn to shreds by hellhounds, dragged down to the Pit, and  _ tortured _ ? It makes something inside of Sam twist in on itself, makes him want to scream and cry, to beg Dean  _ why _ he thought Sam was worth his  _ life _ , was worth  _ anything at all _ .

“I can hear you thinkin’.” Dean grumbles lowly, voice raspy with sleep. He twists until he lets his hand smack gently against Sam’s side. Sam doesn’t say anything, just feels the warmth of Deans hand, bites his bottom lip as a sharp spasm roils up his back and clutches at his ribs and hips. He closes his eyes, bites back a whimper. He doesn’t want Dean to know, not about this.

“Sammy?” says Dean, and his voice is quieter, softer. He tightens his grip on Sam’s side, hand huge and heavy on Sam’s ribs, and Sam shudders, rolls his shoulders back, loosening until he’s all but melted against the bed, hair falling across his face.

“Sorry.” Sam murmurs, keeps his face turned into the pillow, curling his legs up until his thighs are against his belly, fever dream heat, watching as the bare branches quietly clatter against the grubby window.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asks softly, and his hand slowly smooths down until it’s cradled warmly against Sam’s hip beneath the duvet, warm and weighty. It seems to chase away some of the lingering aching pain and Sam sighs softly beneath his breath, relieved.

“Yeah.” He says, and he keeps his head on his worn pillow, feels Dean turn until he can feel his big brother’s breath on the nape of his neck, a familiar and intimate gesture that makes a shiver roil down his spine.

“You ain’t really slept since - well, for a while now, Sammy,” says Dean, and he presses closer until Sam can feel Dean’s knees against the top of the small of his back, just missing the ragged scar that’s made it’s home there, the way his hand crawls up to pet down the broad expanse of Sam’s back, spine a curved noose beneath Dean’s calloused palm, back to Sam’s hip. He notices that Dean doesn’t say that Sam hasn’t been sleeping since he learned of Dean’s deal, not even a week old. “Don’t think I can’t tell, not with the size of those bags under your eyes.”

“Sorry.” Is all Sam can say, Tylenol sour. Dean huffs, curls his fingers around Sam’s hip for a moment, petting the fabric of Sam’s sleep trousers down for a moment. His hand stills after a second, and Sam can’t help the sharp inhale he manages to hide as Dean’s calloused thumb accidently nudges the edge of Sam’s sleepshirt up, resting tenderly on the bare skin of Sam’s hip. It’s electrifying.

“Don’t friggin’ apologise, Jesus Christ,” Dean gripes. “Just - and I cannot  _ believe _ I’m  _ sayin’ _ this - just talk to me.”

Sam laughs, even as he keeps his eyes on the shaft of neon orange light, just coming in from the opening in the curtain, imagining the way Dean’s probably illuminated with it behind him.

“Thought you said no chick flick moments.” Sam teases gently, for all that his voice comes out thick and raw. Dean growls deeply, sliding his hand from Sam’s hip to his side, digging his fingers deep down into Sam’s ribs, making him squeak and squeal, twisting away from tickling fingers.

“Shut up, Samantha.” Dean grumbles beneath his breath, even as he leaves Sam breathless with laughter.

Sam laughs, long and quiet, the phantom print of Dean’s fingers still felt against his ribs. It’s the first time they’ve both laughed since Dean’s deal, for a while now.

“Honestly though, Sam,” Dean says; one track mind, like a dog with a bone. “Cough it up, little brother; is it insomnia, nightmares,  _ visions _ ?”

Sam stiffens, closes his eyes. He clenches them so tightly he an see sparks against the blackness, curling his hands into fists, pressing hard against his sternum. His back is  _ on fire, _ burning with pain as his lower back clenches tightly, leaving his legs locked up in a fetal position. It makes him feel vulnerable. 

“ _ Sam _ .” Dean says, blacktop rough and roaring engine ready. Distantly, Sam can feel him sitting up, and Sam imagines that Dean’s face must be aglow with moonlight and streetlight. 

The episode passes, leaves him sweating and shaking and possibly crying as Dean slowly turns him, hand heavy and protective on Sam’s shuddering shoulder. The feel of the mattress flush against his back, the hardness of it against the curve of his lower back makes him flinch; head pulsing, back arching, illuminated. Dean’s hands wrap around his wrists, fingers gripping tightly.

He twists, feeling his legs curl up all over again, pain lancing down his legs, crawling up his spine and to the very base of his neck; burning, white hot like fire, numb just around the edges.

“ _ -ammy _ ! I swear, little brother, if you don’t friggin’ answer me-” It fades in and out of his hearing, five fingered gut punch, sternum branded, leaves his lower back arching and crying out. He wants to die.

Sam inhales, drowns on dry land, exhales, violent. Dean looms above him, face pale. He’s no longer gripping Sam’s wrists, no, his hands have slid until they’re cupping Sam’s elbow, curling himself over Sam as if to protect him from everything the world can throw at them. The moonlight catches the glint of the amulet around his big brother’s neck and Sam  _ breathes _ .

“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, come back to me, little brother, that’s it, dude-”

A hand is gently stroking through his hair. It cups the back of his skull, tender and gentle, those fingers touch the divot at the base of it. An implacably tender gesture as Sam shudders, takes deep gulping breaths, curling forward into Dean’s heavy warmth.

Through his clenched shut eyes, he can barely make out the swing of the amulet only inches from his mouth, the orange fall of street lights splattering against the wall, the way Dean blocks all but the slightest of lights as he leans across Sam’s face, in touching distance.

“Heya, little brother.” Dean says, quietly. Sam can feel the skitter of his breath on his temple, warm and damp. Dean smears the pad of his thumb under Sam’s tear stained eye, catches the leak of tears, curls his fingers around Sam’s jaw, wide and huge enough to properly cradle the cliff of it.

“ _Dean_.” He gasps, and he can’t help the way his voice breaks on the word. He’s clutching tightly at Dean’s shoulder and chest, can feel the warmth of the skin beneath his fingers, tightly clenched into fists; both an anchor and a stormport, no longer is he adrift in a sea of pain.

“Scared the hell outta me, Sammy.” Dean says, and for all that he tries to make it sound belligerent, it’s far too vulnerable for him to truly mean it.

“Sorry.” Sam stammers, can feel the cold that’s trying to crawl up his spine, the pounding in his head and in his temple that makes bile rise in the back of his throat; it feels like it does after a vision, but he knows it isn’t. He hasn’t had one since Dean finally killed Azazel.

“Don’t  _ apologize _ , Jesus H. Christ,” Dean mutters beneath his breath, but he and Sam are too close for Sam not to hear it. Dean’s closer than before now, close enough that Sam sighs, feeling the warmth of Dean’s broad chest, the body-warm weight of the bronze amulet bumping gently against Sam’s jawline, the cleft of his chin. He can’t help the want to just curl up and bury himself in his big brother, to escape the reality of what’s happening, not only to him but also to Dean and it just makes a phantom lance of pain flare in his back that makes him bite his lip, as if it’s a reminder permanently written into Sam’s body as to what’s happened and what will happen. “C’mere.”

Sam lets Dean prod and poke at him, with wide palms pressed to his ribs, curving around the expanse of his hips, nudging Sam’s thighs with his and bracketing Sam’s legs fully. Eventually, they’re lying chest to back, Sam’s clammy back pressing against Dean’s chest as Dean grips him tightly, an arm around his chest and a wide palm resting just at the base of Sam’s throat; like Sam always does to Dean whenever he grabs onto the bronze amulet the other resting on his hip, a thigh wedged in between Sam’s. He can feel Dean’s breath on the back of his nape, how his heart is thundering furiously against Sam’s back.

Sam knows Dean wouldn’t normally do this, wouldn’t normally be so free with affection, with manhandling Sam so easily, keeping him in easy reaching distance, but something in Dean, in  _ Sam _ , has been irrevocably  _ changed _ , maybe from finally killing the monster that haunted both them and their father, or Sam dying and Dean’s deal coming due in a year and Sam’s subsequent resurrection, something has rattled loose in them both, has made Dean scared, makes him  _ vulnerable _ .

“Are you alright?” Dean asks quietly, barely audible in the darkness of Bobby’s upstairs room. The neon orange light barely touches against their head, the crown of neon lights just touching upon their brow. In the distance, just close enough to be seen from the window, a car goes throttling past, illuminating several scrapped cars in low blue white headlights.

“Honestly?” Sam asks after the car has rattled past. He lifts a hand to curl his fingers around Dean’s wrist, fingers spidering up to touch the calluses of his palm, feeling the whorls of Dean’s thumb as it bends to press against the bones of Sam’s fingers.

“You think I’d ask for a chick flick randomly?” Dean jests, buries his nose against the knob of Sam’s nape, breath damp and warmth against his chilled skin. “Yeah, Sammy,  _ honestly _ .”

Sam doesn’t say anything for the longest time, long enough that Dean must think he’s not going to say anything as Dean just sighs softly, pressing the pad of his thumb deeper into the skin of Sam’s hip. Sam doesn’t particularly want to answer; doesn’t want to open the can of worms that would spill out if he did so. 

“Why?” Is all he asks after a long moment, and he watches how those tree branches flutter in the wind through the just open curtain. Dean doesn’t do him the diservice of pretending that he doesn’t know what Sam is asking. Sam’s grateful. He’s too tired, too  _ everything _ to get angry. He doesn’t want to fight, not with  _ Dean _ .

Dean inhales sharply, and Sam can see and feel the flex of Deans fingers against his own, spasming against Sam’s palm, the way his other hand curls and grips Sam’s hip just that bit more tighter.

“I couldn’t, Sammy,” Dean says lowly, and Sam can feel the softest brush of his lips against the nape of his neck, how Dean’s mouth brushes against the protruding knob of his spine. His aching back has calmed some, as if Dean’s warmth has seeped into the tensing muscles and loosened them some, but it still leaves tremors running up and down his back, and it feels as if the only thing holding him from flying apart is Dean’s arms around him, the sturdiness of his chest against Sam’s back. “I just couldn’t do it.”

His voice is trembling, and Sam hasn’t heard Dean sound so vulnerable in years, not even when Dean was dying, bundled up in one of Sam’s hoodies and giving up on himself. Sam shifts himself further, until he can feel the bite of the amulet between his shoulder blades. His lower back is clenching, loosening and tightening, but it’s an afterthought, not so much a pain but an ache that shivers down his legs, makes his ribs tremble beneath their own weight.

“Couldn’t do what?” He asks, and his voice is as low as Dean's is. Dean presses a kiss to the nape of his neck again, and the hand on Sam’s hip slowly pushes up, until Dean’s wide palm is flat over Sam’s chest, feeling the slow two-beat count of his heart. Something tight in Dean’s body loosens against Sam’s back.

“You gotta know I can’t live without you, Sammy,” Dean says, and it’s desperate, tear damp around the edges as Dean buries his face into Sams neck. He can feel the trembling of Dean’s mouth, the harsh catch of his stubble, the butterfly soft flutter of his damp eyelashes. “I don’t wanna do it without you, I’m sorry, little brother,  _ fuck,  _ I’m so sorry-”

“ _ Dean _ .” Sam whispers, because it’s maybe the only thing he  _ can _ say. He presses back further, nestled into the cradle of Dean’s body like he always has been, feeling the bruises that the amulet is going to give him and he wants it, wants the amulet to mark him, cut him, flay him to the bone because the amulet is the only physical proof of how his and Dean’s hearts are tied; connected, unending, unable to tell where he ends and Dean begins and where Dean ends and he begins.

He turns in Dean’s arms, chest to chest, belly to belly, hip to hip, knee to knee, ankle to ankle. They are one, wrapped up in one another and Sam has never thought he would be so full of something he can’t understand.

“ _ Dean _ ,” He says, all over again, and Dean’s hands are wrapped tightly around him, fisting in the back of his shirt, pressing hard against the lower of his back and it  _ hurts _ , but Sam can’t even begin to care. Dean’s closed his eyes, is refusing to look at Sam, and the wet glistening of his eyelashes in the crown of neon orange street light makes something in Sam’s heart clench. He presses their foreheads together, feels the bumpy ridge of the cut on Dean’s temple, remembers the staggered lightning bolt of blood that had dripped down his nose a week ago. “ _ Big brother _ .”

He can feel the tug of his shirt, knows that the amulet has tangled in the neck line and Sam is a faithful man, has prayed for days, for months, for  _ decades _ , and will continue to do so, but never has he felt more holy than when he has Dean’s face in his hands, smearing the pad of his thumb under one of Dean’s eyes, the glimmering of wetness there a crack in both of their armours. 

“Look at me, Dean,” He whispers, and Dean  _ breathes _ , mouth open and trembling with the weight of himself, and Sam would gladly die for him, but he knows better than to tell that to Dean. “Look at me, big brother, please don’t hide from me.”

Dean inhales, trembling, quivering. He opens his eyes, and he exhales, a damp plume of breath kissing against Sam’s own mouth, curling around the edge of his jaw. 

“ _ Sammy _ .” Dean says, and he curls his arms tighter around Sam, pressing his fist into the lower of his back, right over the scar of his spine and Sam can’t help the way his legs spasm, hitting one of Dean’s shin, gasping and trying to breathe. “ _ Sammy, _ shit, talk to me, man, fuck,  _ fuck- _ ,”

Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, shivering. The lightning bolt of pain passes, a crest in the waves of it and he pants into Dean’s shoulder, feeling the goosebumps that appear on Dean’s skin.

“Is it-?” Dean starts, and Sam knows what he’s about to say. He nods, and his hands have slipped from Dean’s face to his chest, and his fingers are tangled in the cord of the amulet, wound around tight. He hopes it leaves a mark, red and bruising. Physical proof they are both alive.

“Yeah.” Sam says softly. When he lifts his head, their jaws brush, sparks of something huddling into Sam’s throat and he loses his breathe, loses his voice and he stares at Dean, illuminated in a halo of street light orange, the stark red of an alarm clock blaring that it’s two twenty four in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and it almost feels like he’s been saying that since Sam became a walking corpse and his brother’s executioner in one breath, in one selfish deal. Sam won’t tell Dean that at the moment; that he’s been kept alive for his brother’s own selfish inability to live without him, but seeing him now, broken down and beaten up, both of them hollowed out like an empty grave, he can’t bare to. There is a time and place, and between the sweet softness of the air between them, this isn’t it. “I just-you gotta believe me, Sammy. I can’t do this shit without you.”

“Yeah, you can.” Sam says softly, and they’re close enough that their noses are brushing softly, the warmth of their breathes damp against their skins. Sam can see something in Dean’s eyes that’s beyond heartbreak, beyond love. His words are echos of all those years ago, where he’d first saw Dean for the first time in three years, had heard his voice for the first time in almost  _ two _ .

Dean’s face breaks open, an egg cracked, spilling emotions. He’s staring at Sam as if he’s never seen him before. Sam doesn’t say anything,  _ can’t _ say anything; only drops his gaze to where his fists are still clenched in the front of Dean’s shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it, the way his heart is slow, the beat of it almost loud in Sam’s ears even though he knows he can’t hear it.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” Dean parrots, and it’s the same as well, like all those years ago. Sam doesn’t say anything still, simply curls his fingers around the body warm amulet, raising it high so it’s between their faces. Something a little like electricity is humming through Sam’s body, and it’s not just the background aching of his spine, of the small of his back. It’s the way Dean is looking at him, the way his hand is wide-palmed and warm, weighty against the width of his ribs, a heavy blanket around his waist.

“No,” Sam says softly. “You don’t want to.”

Dean looks at him for the longest moment, eyes dark. The cut of his cheekbones are illuminated in orange neons, the greens of his eyes turned golden and bright, his eyelashes are spiky, still damp with barely there tears. Sam can’t breathe.

“No,” Dean says, and it’s just as soft. “No, I don’t want to.”

Dean raises a hand, the one that was trapped between them and he uses it to wrap around Sam’s wrist, the one that’s holding the amulet between them, the other warm and weighty on his back, wide and flat against his back, barely brushing against the ache thrumming of his scar.  As Sam watches with burning eyes, Dean leans down, never taking his gaze off of Sam. He presses kisses to Sam’s fingers, to the bronze amulet between his grasp and it’s like sinking into the Impala’s leather seat, Dean at his side; home at last.

“Dean?” He whispers, feels his free hand slowly tightening around Dean’s shirt, nails skittering against his flesh beneath the thin fabric, watches the way Dean’s eyes are fixed on his, dark and wanting. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago, Sammy.” Dean says, and he’s close enough that their mouths brush everytime he talks, a soft skim of skin that sends electricity down his spine that mixes with the constant ache. Sam doesn’t know what to think,  _ can’t _ think.

Between one moment and the next, the amulet is caught between their mouths, and Dean is leaning forward, illuminated in the light. Dean’s mouth is wet, warm and soft, the amulet having catching on their mouths is warmer and hard. It’s like all thought have disappeared from his head, left him stranded by instinct with his big brother and something that Sam has tried so long not to think of.

It’s soft and slick, and Dean licks across the seam of his mouth, and Sam opens up to him like a budding flower, and he shudders, cradled in the clutch of Dean’s body, knowing they shouldn’t be doing this for more than one reason, that not only are they brothers, Dean’s deal is  _ his _ fault, and he doesn’t know if Dean is doing this out of want or some backwards thought.

Dean’s tongue is slick and warm, and it strokes over the ridges of the roof of his mouth, touches at the muscle of his own tongue, the amulet caught between their mouths, wet with saliva as Dean’s tongue pushes it deeper into his mouth, tangling with their tongues, and the kiss tastes of burnished metal, of Dean’s mouth. Sam gasps, presses himself closer, as Dean slowly curls his arm around Sam’s waist, tighter and tighter. The hand that was clutching Sam’s wrist is in his hair now, tangling the strands of it, pressing gently into the divot at the base of his skull, tender.

Dean is the one who breaks apart first, but he doesn’t go far, only far enough that the amulet falls free of their mouths, slick and wet in the streetlight glow; only far enough to rest his forehead against Sam’s, noses brushing. Both of their mouths are trembling, Sam knows.

“I can’t live without you,” Sam whispers, instead of all the ways he wants to say that Dean never should have kissed him; because Sam is going to be guilty of Dean’s death; and Dean isn’t just his brother, has never been  _ just _ his brother. “I tried it at Stanford, Dean, I don’t wanna live without you. Not again.”

Dean smiles, but it’s tremulous, as if he’s trying so hard to keep it all together, but the quivering edges of his mouth, the newly dampening of his eyes make it easy for Sam to realize that Dean isn’t alright, isn’t alright at all. The hand on his waist comes up, and Sam can feel how it skims up his forearm, and it comes up to cradle his jaw, soft and tender, and for all that Dean isn’t normally tender, it feels like he’s always been touched like that, an outlet for all the softness that Dean hides.

“You can do it, baby,” Dean rasps. He’s still as close as can be to Sam, and they’re still lying, entwined as close as two people can get on that twin mattress. Somehow, Sam has never felt both as distant and as close to his brother. “I might not be able to, but I know you can.”

“I don’t  _ want _ to,” Sam says, and he can feel the hot splash of tears against his own eyes, and he pushes his forehead hardest against Dean’s, feeling the hot clench of his lower back, the way the spasms make his leg jerk and kick out slightly, the ridges of the cut on Dean’s head. “I never asked for this, Dean! Don’t-Don’t make me  _ survive _ without you-”

Sam doesn’t see it coming; Dean tilts his head, kisses him swift and chaste, a press of lips on lips; as if Dean is testing him almost, even if he wanted to do that.

“You can do it, Sammy,” Dean tells him, and his voice is still that rasping rumble, breaking at the edges even as he smears his thumb under Sam’s eyes, wiping at the tears Sam can feel there. He closes his eyes, leans into the touch. “You  _ gonna _ do it, okay? ‘Cause I need you to try and live for me, okay, baby?”

“I’m not just gonna let you  _ die _ -” He hisses into Dean’s face, uses the pain of the constant ache in his spine as anger, curls his fingers into the thin fabric of Dean’s shirt, would use it to pull him closer if they weren’t as close as could be.

“ _ Yes, yes you are _ ,” Dean growls back, but his hand is still soft around Sam’s jaw, and he uses the curve of it to press their cheeks together, and Sam can’t help the sob that gets caught in the back of his throat as he closes his eyes, feeling the damp warmth of Dean’s breath against the curve of his ear.  “You’re gonna fuckin’ let me die! You’re gonna let me die and you’re gonna fuckin’ live, Sam. You try to find a way outta this deal and you’re fucked, okay? You go back to being fuckin’ dead, dead as a doornail and I can’t do that, Sammy, y’hear me? I can’t live in a world without you.”

“And you think I can?” Sam demands hoarsely, and he’s shaking, feeling as if he’s slowly falling to pieces, flying apart and not even Dean can hold him together, because Dean is part of the reason. He wants to bury himself beneath Dean’s skin, crawl into the amulet and make his home there, nestled close to Dean’s heart, the heat of him, make sure Dean can never go anywhere without him

“I think you’re stronger than me,” Dean growls, but it’s softer, quieter. His mouth brushes against the curve of Sam’s ear on every word.. “I think that you’re so much stronger than me, and you’re gonna live, Sammy, because you’re gonna live for me. You gotta live for me, baby.”

Sam presses his lips together, and not even the way his back spasms, making him curl into Dean, as if to crawl into the very heart of him, can match the pain he can hear in Dean’s voice, the pain Sam feels. He knows one thing, even if he doesn’t know how he and Dean are going to live in the aftermath of the yellow eyed demons death; adrift without a reason, a target to point themselves out; even if he doesn’t know that, he knows one thing.

“I’m not gonna just let you die, Dean,” Sam says into the warmth of Dean’s throat, cradling one another in their bodies. “I don’t care if I end up droppin’ dead, I’m not just going to let you die, not on my watch.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a time, simply breathing quietly into Sams ear even as his wide palm makes broad strokes up and down Sam’s back. Then, after a long minute, he pulls back enough to brush his mouth against Sam’s; slick and warm, a lazy tangle of tongues before it softens, just a press of mouths, the soft slick of a tongue.

“I’m not gonna let you die.” Sam murmurs again, against the slick wetness of Dean’s mouth. He hears Dean swallow, and knows that Dean realizes that Sam won’t let Dean die easy; that Sam won’t let Dean go without a fight.

“I know, Sammy,” Dean sighs after, resting his forehead against Sam’s, and Sam can see the hopelessness in his eyes; it makes his heart ache. “God, I know.”

He makes it sound like it’s the worse thing he’s heard. Sam knows it isn't. 

Even if he has to die, Sam is going to find a way out of this deal. He's going to make sure Dean  _lives_.

_ What I most want to say is how real you are, always, for me. _

_ (What a blessed thing, this sense of reality is, so long as it remains to one_ ) _

—   **Iris Murdoch,** , from a letter to Raymond Queneua, written c. February 1952


End file.
